Blood For Wild Blood
by truglasgowgal
Summary: Wesley Mitchell does not get sick. Not ever. Except this one time when he does.


First finished and posted fic for this fandom (but hopefully not my last!)  
As is the norm when I start a new venture, I swear I haven't abandoned any of my other fics. I am working on them, it's just slow-going, my apologies.

It's been a while since I did a h/c fic and my other fic ideas for Common Law haven't been progressing as quickly as I'd like, and I'm going to be without internet for a short while so basically this happened - and it kept happening because I couldn't control the length so it should really be a two-shot or three-shot, but I don't have the time to split it up lol so sorry one-shot it is! Apologies for any mistakes, shall correct them when I'm reconnected.

Order goes Wes-Travis-Wes and so on until the end. Should be easy enough to follow.

Hope you enjoy…

* * *

**Title:** Blood for Wild Blood  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the characters or anything except the 'plot' content herein. Title from the song of the same name by Razorlight.  
**WARNING:** SWEAR WORD OR TWO (just so we're all clear before we start ;) )  
**Summary:** Wesley Mitchell does not get sick. Not ever. Except this one time when he does.

.

"_It is sometimes as dangerous to be run into by a microbe as by a trolley car."  
__**J. J. Walsh**_

.

The point to note here is that Wesley Mitchell does not get sick. Not ever.

Maybe once or twice when he was a kid, but since he must've been too young for the memory to last until adulthood, any such instance can be disqualified from the count.

Wes just doesn't get sick; it's not in nature and he's not in any hurry to change that.

Unlike Travis, who seems to contract every little sniffle or tickle of the throat as soon as the afflicted so much as glances in his direction. (You'd think someone with his housing record would have a built up a better immune system over the years. Honestly.)

No, Wes does not get sick.

Except when he finds himself with a cough that persists for _weeks_, and a pain in his chest that likes to accompany it just to remind him this _thing –_ whatever it is – has taken up residency in his insides. As if he isn't already aware he's playing extremely reluctant host to some sort of energy-sucking parasite whose favorite pastime seems to be constricting his airways so he can hardly catch his breath, and keeping him up at all times of the night with the sheer volume of perspiration soaking through onto his bed-sheets. (It's gotten to the ridiculous stage now that the maids don't even bother asking him if he requires a new set, they just wordlessly provide him with clean, dry bedding every day and then go about the rest of their duties. He imagines he might be more embarrassed about it if he wasn't concentrating so much on _not _thinking about it.)

Therefore, it's only logical that when Wes finally makes himself take note of his symptoms, he assumes he's dying.

Naturally, he takes this to be Travis's fault.

.

Captain Sutton is busy giving them a glowing commendation to the rest of the department when it happens.

Now Travis may be otherwise occupied with making eyes at the new recruit near the back of the room, but that does not mean he isn't the first to notice when Wes stiffens next to him and then suddenly starts making choking sounds. He turns to find his partner grappling at his suit jacket, his body already half-twisted round and away from the prying eyes of their colleagues. Like Hudson when he picks up on a scent, they're suddenly overly-curious, necks craning, legs extending, eager to catch a glimpse of what's going on, to discover the cause of this latest turn of events that has their interest piqued. It's only when Wes pulls the small slip of material free from his inside pocket that he releases the first of a series of painful-sounding, hacking coughs.

The Captain dutifully stops his speech and turns to his second-best detective, concerned. "Wes?" he asks, angling his neck round to try get at least one good eye on the blonde. "You alright there?"

Wes holds his palm up, his body still hunched over with the exertion each wheezing breath takes on his insides.

After another minute, when it seems like the coughing has subsided enough to allow him to take a breath without his chest constricting and destroying any ability for him to remain upright and talkative, Wes wipes his mouth with the hankie and looks up at the Captain, muttering an apologetic, "Sorry, Cap."

The blonde points towards the door before swallowing, his brow knitted like a bowing canopy above the street-drenched sidewalk of his glossy eyes; straining under the pressure, it was never meant to bear such a burden.

"It's fine, it's fine," Captain Sutton assures him, "Go get some water."

Wes croaks a "Thanks" and then stumbles out the room quicker than Travis imagines was his intention.

The coughing continues, loud and echoing even now his partner is separated from them all through another room across a large space and a corridor of windows. Then again, he launched Wes through one of the panes (_not _the other way round) and Wes is like a waif, so Travis doubts they're really equipped to withstand much of an assault to their senses.

"Travis, go make sure your partner's still alive out there," Sutton instructs him, jerking his head towards the door Wes just staggered through moments before. "'Last thing I need, one of my top Detective's dropping dead in my precinct right under my nose."

"Sure thing, Cap," he nods and flashes him a grin with the words, "Wouldn't want to have to call in a replacement partner for me, right?"

.

He makes it to the break room, but it's another minute or so before he manages to slow his breathing enough to gulp down air with no immediate repercussions. He stays bent-double over the sink trying to recollect himself. He lifts his arms though they feel like lead and wipes at his mouth, making sure he rids his face of all evidence of his immune system's attack on its own body, and then takes another deep breath in. He can hear it rattling against the calcium cage bars in his mouth as he slowly lifts his head up to stare at the wall straight ahead of him. He tries to find a point to center his gaze, to find himself once more.

There's no reflection there to tell Wes just how shitty he looks, and at a time like this it makes him grateful for such small mercies.

He's leaning against the work surface, yet to fully straighten, his hands lax against the inside rim. Five fingers still clutch tightly to the dark square of material and five drip red into the basin below.

He hears footsteps approaching, the squeak of rubber on the floor and he flips the faucet, rubs across the steel bowl until it is once more a pristine sheen, and then hastily scrubs at the pads of his fingers with the handkerchief before quickly dumping said material in the trash. Another waste of a good item, but you can't put a price on the prevention of spreading germs, especially in such a crowded environment as the station.

There's a whoosh of air that accompanies the door opening before the presence of another appears to invade his personal space.

"Hey, man, you ok?" Travis's voice greets him.

Of course it's Travis; he'd breathe a sigh of relief if he didn't think it would set him off again. Then again, he's not sure he wants his partner to see him like this any more than he does the other members of the department. Travis tends to be a tad more _persistent_ in his quest for answers.

He inwardly curses before realizing he's yet to answer, so he nods, swallows, but won't quite allow himself to speak yet.

"Really?" his partner sounds sceptical, and his suspicions are confirmed when he rolls his head round and looks over his shoulder to see Travis raising an eyebrow in his direction and following it up with the question, "So I shouldn't be concerned about what just happened in there?"

He shakes his head, makes himself answer a resolute "No" before Travis can go getting any ideas.

"I hear you saying that, but I'm looking at you right now, Wes, and you don't look so hot," is the response; tone just as disbelieving as before.

"Well, I'll have you know that is exactly how I'm feeling right now," he replies as he turns round to face his partner, resting the base of his spine against the edge of the counter. He refuses to acknowledge it is for balance; he simply doesn't feel like moving just yet. And he's not lying, he does feel hot: he felt it when he brushed the back of his hand against his forehead earlier; but that's what the over-the-counter tablets are for. They just need time to work, that's all.

"Maybe you should see a doctor," is his partner's advice, his blue eyes surveying Wes closely.

He resists the urge to snort at that, because as usual he's one step ahead and Travis should already anticipate this because as past experience will testify: Wes has already arranged and attended the appointment before Travis has even thought of the need for it.

Only he can't allow himself to think about that right now because that will mean thinking about what has just happened.

If he allows himself to dwell on what has just happened: the stained fingers, the uncontrollable coughing, the stabbing pains in his chest; he'll have to admit that something is wrong. Seriously wrong. And the only thing worthy of such seriousness is death, which Wes has no interest in pursuing at this current time. He already has enough to worry about being partnered with Travis on a daily basis without the unfounded notion hanging over his head that a potentially deadly sickness is eating away at him from the inside.

If he informs Travis of what has just happened, his partner will likely jump right onto his computer and start plugging his words into the search engine and come up with certain death.

So no, if Wes is dying, he'd rather be informed of it by someone in the medical trade, a _professional,_ after the appropriate exam and tests have been conducted and they've drawn on their vast knowledge of health and illness. Not by his gung-ho partner and the guesstimated prognosis of a dodgy internet link.

"For your information I have an appointment with my physician next week," he informs the other, and again he's not lying; he called this morning after waking up to the dreaded fear that there was a weight on his chest that he couldn't _move _and it was _crushing _everything vital to his continued ability to live. "So you can stop worrying because this will likely all be cleared up by then."

"Whatever you say, partner," Travis says to that and as if to prove his underlying point that he's willing to drop the matter for the moment, he pushes open the door and gestures for Wes to walk through first, which he does.

They return to their desks and Wes immediately reaches for his hand sanitizer. No one pays them any heed, which is just the way Wes likes it.

Travis grabs his jacket from the back of his chair and steps round towards him while he tries to rid his skin of any errant germs that may still linger there.

He looks up to see the Captain nod to them and call out, "Nice to see you're still in one-piece."

He doesn't specifically say that it's directed at Wes, but Wes takes it as such. After all, what did Travis have to worry about? He wasn't the one who'd nearly coughed up a lung.

Travis is grinning at him now and he motions towards the exit. "Come on, let's go get something to eat. I am _starving_."

Wes grimaces. "I'm not really hungry."

Travis scowls and then rolls his eyes, heaving an _overly _dramatic sigh (even by Travis's standards) and telling him, "Fine, we'll dope you up on cough syrup and those little vitamin tablets that taste all orange-y and crunchy."

He raises an eyebrow at that, slowly repeating, "_Orange-y and crunchy_?" And then he reconsiders, "Actually, that sounds about right; since that's exactly the terminology no one on this side of _ten_ would use, except the great Travis Marks."

"Shut up, you know what I mean," is his partner's unimpressed answer to his smile, and after another sigh he takes to explaining to Wes like he's speaking to a child, "You can have your fill of all the flu medicine and bottled _Evian_ you want, while I get the good stuff that actually puts some meat on your bones and provides you with the sustenance needed to catch the bad guys."

"So what you _really_ mean is that I will get to avoid whatever fatty food you decide to gorge yourself on today that will likely contain your daily salt intake in one serving and send your cholesterol levels sky high?" Wes ascertains from that, smacks his lips together, and then proclaims it, "Sounds like an even trade."

He's cut off a minute later by another bout of coughing and he's grateful for the forethought that made him bring more than one handkerchief and a single packet of tissues today.

"I'd say that's karma, but with the look you're sporting right now, I'd probably be accused of kicking a puppy when he's down," Travis remarks and then flashes him a row of perfect, straight, white teeth, "And everyone knows how much I love dogs. So I could _never_ do that to you, partner."

Wes rolls his eyes, but doesn't comment.

"What? You're giving me the silent treatment, now?" his partner surmises as they make their way towards his car. "How about if I buy you a bottle of _Tylenol_? Will that make you feel better, Wesley?"

Travis sounds like he's trying to convince an under-five that this is the best remedy for whatever is causing him to be _prickly_ towards the elder. It's not working. Mostly because Wes is not under five, but also because sometimes he just _likes _being prickly with Travis to see what he'll do in return.

"Come on!" Travis finally cries out when they've made it all the way to the car without another word passing between them and Wes has already opened his door and slid inside. "How about I get you the vitamins _and _I get you the _Tylenol_?" he proposes as he steps into the passenger seat.

Wes just sends him a sideways glance, refuses to dignify that with a proper response.

"They'll make you feel better, come on," Travis cajoles, puts on his best salesman act and musters the dazzling smile to boot, "Just ask anyone, they'll tell you: _Tylenol _is the cure for _everything_."

_Tylenol_ is _not _the cure for everything.

When he feels no better after specifically following the dosage and frequency on the labels, Wes makes sure to tell Travis as such. Naturally Travis tells him it must just be him, because it cures everyone else of everything else. Wes thinks Travis has been grossly misinformed throughout his life and should stop spouting such propaganda when he has clearly just disproved the claim right in front of his very eyes. Travis maintains that it must just be because there's something wrong with Wes. Unsurprisingly, Wes intends to blame Travis if this turns out to be true.

.

They're in the middle of a pursuit when it becomes clear next week's doctor's appointment is not nearly soon enough for Wes.

Travis catches up to them just in time to see Wes come careening out of the lane between the two buildings, their sights honed in on the same spot. Their suspect is standing on the edge of the sidewalk, eyes darting back and forth as he presumably attempts to pick his best moment to try to dodge the speeding cars coming in both directions.

Travis knows this, because he's on the other side of the road doing the same thing. And then Wes appears over the guy's shoulder just as he steps into the first lane and yanks him out of the line of traffic.

Only that's when things start to get a little skewed.

Usually Wes would be fine after a chase like that; a little out of breath and likely inwardly grateful that Travis materialized when he did to put an abrupt end to the pursuit, but _fine_.

Instead, what happens is Wes is the one to catch up to their perp, halting the chase himself by preventing the guy from a near-certain future of being flattened by some suped-up convertible, and Travis is left to weave his own way through the lanes to get to them.

He's literally just hopped across the hood of a cab when it happens. Wes still has one hand on the back of the suspect's jersey when he hunches over suddenly, gasping, gagging, desperately fumbling in his pocket for a tissue before releasing the hacking coughs that look like they're about to send him to his knees. The suspect instinctively tries to wiggle out of the blonde's grasp and the added movement throws Wes off balance. Travis is only just stepping onto the curb, hand outstretched to unload his partner of the burden, when Wes teeters backwards.

His head smacks against the concrete with a resounding _thud _so staggering the suspect glues himself to the spot to watch the aftermath while Travis propels himself forward. His partner's name erupts from the base of his throat, and he draws out the breath from deep in his lungs that Wes can't.

He wrenches his phone from his pocket and calls it in, tells them they have an _officer down_ and then repeats it so even he can't mistake what's just happened here. He bounds across the sidewalk and grabs the suspect, handcuffing him to the nearest pole, while the guy shouts about his human rights and police brutality and loudly protests, "You can't do this, man! It ain't right!"

"You think I care?" Travis returns, just as loudly, if a little more crazed, "You could've killed my partner! You don't get to talk about what's right!"

He can see Wes's chest moving up and down, knows he's alive and breathing on his own. It's the only reason he can say it. Can say those words, can say that guy nearly did that, nearly _killed_ his partner.

Then he finds himself fighting the sudden urge to throw up.

He nearly trips over his own feet when he finally staggers over to Wes. Wes who is lying unconscious, a red puddle snaking out from the blonde tufts of his hair and slithering down towards his shoulder like its ambition is to create an outline of his body in blood for all those responding to see.

Travis drops to his knees, chanting his partner's name and praying that those sirens he hears in the distance are steadily getting closer and closer to their position.

"Look at him!" he shouts, cradling his partner's head in his hands, Wes's body lying unresponsive between them, as he throws a furious look over his shoulder at the suspect who caused this to happen, "You think that's right?"

It's cliché and probably not wholly accurate, but it really does seem like a lifetime before he watches Wes's body arch in a painful spasm, until he hears him groan and sees his eyes flitter open. His partner frowns, blinks slowly and looks so unbelievably confused with the world being presented to him right now; which Travis reckons is to be expected given he just cracked his skull off the sidewalk.

"Blue… " Wes mumbles, brow still creased, lips now pursed, a hard swallow that Travis tracks the length of until the blonde is near shaking under him. "… _Trav_…" he manages to get out, and then he's really and truly struggling in the namesake's hold, throwing his head to the side with such a force Travis is worried he'll do more damage than the asphalt already has.

"Wes, Wes! It's Travis! You're ok!" he rambles quickly, trying to reassure, hoping to puncture the haze at some point with his words. "You were chasing after a suspect and you fell and hit your head, but you're ok. You're ok, Wes."

The loud, spine-twisting hacks start to take over and he instantly understands what Wes is trying to do. Barely lucid enough to be able to comprehend more than the fact Travis (or someone with decidedly similar striking blue eyes) is hovering above him, his partner's body has given him just enough warning before the onset of the coughing fit so he's able to angle his mouth to the side, allowing him to localize the area where he emits any germs to the already grimy concrete. Away from Travis.

Trust Wes to be concerned with trying to curb the spread of a possible infection (read: _highly likely_ infection – he should've seen the doctor like Travis suggested) when he's currently bleeding all over Travis's clothes and a sidewalk which the good people of Los Angeles have to walk on everyday. He can already envision the choice words his partner will bestow upon him when he comes to and realizes he _voluntarily _(Travis thinks that's an important point to note) had his face pressed against said sidewalk for the good of another's health, notably Travis's. Normally such an instance would lead onto a lecture about public safety and the importance of maintaining a healthy, balanced lifestyle; but Travis can't really see Wes going down that route here. In the unlikely event that he does, Travis has a whole arsenal of _I told you so_'s that he can use as a counter-attack.

Wes _really_ should've listened to him when he told him to go see the doctor.

Travis might even tease him about it now he's awake and appears out of relative immediate danger. Except even though the sirens have drawn to a close with the tire treads next to them, Wes has yet to stop convulsing.

There's a soundtrack to nightmares and Travis knows what his will be for weeks to come. He can't think of anything worse than hearing his partner drown in his own lungs, coughing out more than he can take in, and choking on what little breath he manages to grasp.

.

He sees blue circles in the sky.

A curve of white that keeps lifting higher.

Brown clouds swaying above.

He feels the frown as if there are little needle-points above his eyes tugging at the skin there, making him look and feel and _hurt._

Blue eyes.

He parts his lips, feels his tongue hit the roof of his mouth and tries not to let it land between the solid white shutters that play gate-masters to any sound he attempts to make herein.

White teeth.

He doesn't think he'll tell whoever belongs to that smile that it can penetrate through the foggiest of air to reach its destination; he thinks they might already know. They'd have to.

Brown hair.

Messy, like chocolate wisps smeared across a mixing plate or the face of someone who seems to miss their mouth with every attempt to shovel the food inside.

_Travis_.

He thinks he says his partner's name, but he's not sure if it makes it out in one-piece. He'd chuckle at the joke from earlier (it's still awful, but it's at least somewhat relevant now) if it didn't feel like his heart was being strangled in the same choke-hold that seems determined to squeeze out what little remains of his lungs. He wonders if Travis hears him anyway.

.

Travis is hovering over his partner calling out his name, the last breath on his tongue all but forgotten as he anxiously waits for Wes to open his eyes once more. They snap open with another gasp that can't bring enough air into his battered lungs and he bucks under Travis's hand.

"He having trouble breathing?" a voice asks, with the appropriate amount of concern edging into his tone to show he wants to help; set off by the controlled manner that's supposed to reassure you. He is not worried, and Travis shouldn't be either. He is a professional, he is trained to deal with situations like this; he knows what he's doing.

Travis looks up to see the paramedics rushing over to them, dropping down next to them, already preparing the oxygen by the time he nods and stutters out a, "Yeah, it's like he can't catch his breath for a single minute. And his head's bleeding pretty bad from where he fell."

The other paramedic moves to inspect the wound at the back of Wes's head and then applies a gauze dressing. He starts to ask Wes a series of questions, continuing to examine him, while the first guy keeps his oral attention directed at Travis.

"You see what happened?" the first guy asks while he fiddles with the oxygen and ensures it's secured over the blonde's face, moving to deal with whatever his training dictates comes next.

"Yeah, sort of," Travis replies vaguely, before answering more confidently with a report of what he really does, "Wes was chasing down this kid, who – because he's a total _dumbass_ – goes to step out into traffic, so Wes pulls him back before he can become roadkill and then… I dunno," he shrugs, sort of at a loss, "He's had this cough for a while and I guess the chase wore him out and he doubled over and I'm not sure if the kid pushed him or what – "

"Hey! I didn't touch him!" is the snap interruption at that.

"What did I say before?" Travis shouts back. "Shut up!"

A couple of patrol officers are in the midst of un-cuffing the perp from the pole and re-cuffing him for his journey in the back of the squad car. Travis spares a moment to nod at the familiar faces as they cart the kid away and finds a sympathetic expression from each of those surrounding. There's always that touch of relief that none can help, though; because as much as they'd never wish such a fate on a fellow police officer, to see his partner go down and be utterly _useless _to help change the outcome, there's always that thought: thanks God it wasn't me, thank God it wasn't mine. There's always a quiet breath of relief amongst those of anguish.

" – anyway," he's quickly back to the task at hand: letting the paramedic know as much as he does about what went down, "I don't know if the kid knocked him off balance or Wes tripped, but he fell backwards, smacked his head off the sidewalk, and he's been in an' out of it ever since."

"Dizzy," is the muffled interruption at that.

"What?" Travis speaks, before the paramedics can even get a word in. "Dizzy like your skull just collided with concrete and you're seeing little yellow cartoon birds flying around your head, or dizzy like you're about to puke on me because you missed when you were spitting up all over the sidewalk earlier?"

"Dizzy," Wes repeats, apparently intent on ignoring everything else and just focusing on what he deems most important. Travis has a fleeting thought that this head injury might not have done nearly as much damage to his partner as he first thought if he's still acting like his typical self, and then he shoves the thought away with the same force that he watched rocket through Wes's body as the shuddering hacks stole his breath and his words. So he remains silent and let's Wes continue, "…'fore… Dizzy."

The sound is distorted under the rubber of the oxygen mask and Wes frowns and lazily lifts a hand to attempt to remove it when he thinks Travis can't understand him.

"Hey, no, you need to leave that on, buddy," Travis cuts in when one of the paramedic's pinches the mask in place over Wes's protesting movements; as lax as they may be. "You could barely say my name without throwing in one of those loud, melodramatic coughing fit's you've been prone to taking lately – what? You worried I wasn't listening to you?" He tries to keep his tone light, won't let the tightness in his gut spread upwards, infect his tone like it's infected everything of Wes. "No, no, no, oxygen is exactly what you need right now, partner."

"How long was he out?" is the next question directed his way.

"Two, maybe three minutes," he responds, eyes barely leaving the blonde who's staring up at him with a furrowed brow, lips pulled into a tight line; apparently this is news to Wes. "He hit his head pretty hard."

"Dizzy," Wes pipes up again. This time he waves his hand around next to Travis's crouched form, occasionally knocking against his knee, and Travis can't tell if it's to get his attention or if Wes is just that exhausted and out of it that he can barely keep control of his motor functions. The former seems a far less gut-twisting notion so he's gonna go with that explanation for now. "… Before… " his partner manages to breathe out the entire word this time, and then just to show off follows it up with what could nearly be classed as a full sentence, "Felt dizzy 'fore… 'fore fell."

"So your fall was the result of a dizzy spell, is that what you're saying, sir?" the paramedic picks up on the expansion quickly, evidently eager for more information. And so he should be, Travis thinks. The more they know the better they can treat his partner, which he reckons they should start to do more of because Wes is only looking marginally better than he did when Travis was struck with the paralyzing thought that if Wes didn't run out of breath and suffocate himself to death, he was liable to bleed out in his arms.

Wes tries to nod, licking his lips under the mask. "Trav's fault… " is the next thing he feels prudent to share with their audience.

Ingrained as these words are; Travis's automatic response is to roll his eyes and cluck his tongue. Only this time, for once, he doesn't look away. He won't. He can't.

"Ran all that way – s'tiring. S'hard to breathe after… after that," Wes says next, and if he didn't have the mask on Travis would swear his matter-of-fact tone would be clear as day, shrug to accompany it, and slight crinkle of the eyebrow like this should be obvious, but he'll conclude for them anyway: "Dizzy."

Then his partner slowly blinks and Travis can see him idly smiling up at him behind the clear plastic of his oxygen mask.

"Maybe if you spent more time on your feet and less trying to cough up a lung, I wouldn't have to suffer through your little fainting act and you wouldn't end up taking a nap on the sidewalk and getting pampered by the paramedics here," Travis answers at that, and then just for good measure adds, "And there's no use even trying to deny you're Liz Taylor in this partnership; it's officially set in stone now. As soon as we're done here I'm getting you a big-ass wig for you to flounce around in. Always gotta be the Drama-Queen, right Wes?"

He's finding that it's easier to deal with this whole situation if he treats Wes as he usually does. It's terrible, he _knows_, because only moments before his partner was lying under him, bleeding and unconscious and now he's making fun of him when he still can't breathe properly –

Travis watches Wes perform the sleepiest looking eye-roll in history and then he's hit with another coughing fit that is so severe he attempts to curl in on himself like he's trying to protect everyone around him from a ticking time bomb that's strapped to his chest and he can't do anything about.

The maneuver looks even more awkward with Wes in a collar and when the medics roll him to the side, Travis could swear he can make out each of his partner's vertebrae through the thin material of his shirt. Wes seriously needs to stop scrimping on the meat and put down the salad and water already because this is getting ridiculous now. He did not sign up to be partnered with Skeleton Joe.

"How long did you say he's been like this?" one of the paramedics asks, looking concerned; which Travis already knows can't be a good sign.

"Pretty much since he dropped," he tells them and then he's a bit more vague as he says, "But before that? A few weeks, a month maybe."

He figures he looks as unsure as he feels right now.

"Why?" he probes, looking between the two.

What happened to the paramedic's confidence? The trust Travis is supposed to have that they'll fix Wes right up?

Did he just imagine all that?

No, he definitely didn't. This is just a change, something they hadn't anticipated. They're still confident in their abilities; he can still trust them to treat his partner.

"Is there anything else you can tell us about what's being going on with your partner that might help us get a more accurate understanding of what's wrong with him?" the paramedic asks next.

"Well, for one, he's usually a lot more awake and alert, an' I'm ignoring the irony in that right now. He always used to get into the office before me and leave well after if he could," Travis explains, figures fleshing it out, adding in some context can only help them to get a _more accurate understanding_ of what's eating Wes. "Now he's always about offering me a ride home – 'thinks I don't know it's 'cos he's gotta leave else he'll fall asleep at his desk and he doesn't wanna risk me taking a marker to his pretty little face. That or he's trying to make a quick getaway since everyone gets dangerously close to wanting to strangle him come quitting time 'cos of all the _hack, hack, hack_."

"Smart," is the wheezing response to that and he really shouldn't be surprised by now that Wes would waste his only chance at catching a breath to make sure he gets his two cents in on whatever story Travis is trying to tell.

"Whatever," Travis waves him off, and then sends him a flyaway smile as he takes pleasure in tattling on Wes some more, "And he's not been eating as much lately – I keep telling him he needs to eat more not less. I know we joked about his weight in grams in therapy, but seriously, the dude is likely to waste away if he doesn't get a few meaty cheeseburgers in him."

"Loss of appetite, fatigue, prolonged cough, dizzy spells," the paramedic rattles off to his own partner.

"I've been sweating… at night," Wes pipes up then.

"That's disgusting," Travis tells him reactively.

"Shut up," Wes pants, "S'not like I can help it."

"And he's running a fever," the other paramedic directs at the first, recites the reading he's taken as if to amplify what he's saying, along with a load of stats and abbreviated terms Travis imagines are critical to his partner's care.

They seem to share a look that confirms a diagnosis between them of what that all means, but Travis doesn't know what that is, all he knows is there's more urgency in the paramedic's voice when he tells Wes quite categorically that he is not to remove the oxygen mask that is covering his face.

The other medic moves to retrieve something Travis isn't paying attention to, but likely should be, and then radios in a message Travis doesn't listen out for though he probably should as well. When he appears back in view he's got a gown on and a mask and he's replacing his gloves. That alone is enough to nearly have Travis's breath catch in his throat and he turns determinedly to watch over Wes in the minute that follows to make sure he's not had the same instant reaction: there is way more to this than he originally thought. The paramedic passes the other kit to his partner and then holds out a mask and a set of gloves to Travis.

For once Wes seems to get the memo not to argue with what someone's saying to him (he might not be one anymore, but once upon a time Wes was born to be a lawyer) and since then he hasn't made another move to fiddle with the oxygen currently pumping in through his mouth and nose. His eyes are on Travis's as he watches him don the face protector and then cover his digits and he seems to be coping with this escalation rather calmly for someone who could barely keep a steady rhythm a few minutes ago.

It's almost immediate, the urge to curse himself out. He may not have said the words out loud, but apparently thinking them is enough to jinx his partner. Of course it is; this is Wes he's talking about.

It's easier said than done to keep the oxygen mask where it is; especially when Wes suddenly arches his back and clenches his stomach and his fingers pulls into fists that pound uncontrollably against the sidewalk in time with the hacks that tear through his body.

"We need to get him to the hospital stat," the paramedic says and though they're moving to do just that, Travis thinks they're suddenly missing something huge.

The mask is replaced over Wes's mouth, but his partner's hands rest in his lap, cupped together as if frozen in their last position where they'd flown to the blonde's face and tried to assist where the breathing apparatus couldn't. His partner's hands, resting in his lap, cupped together: they hold the mucus and such that collected there when the paramedic wasn't quick enough to pry his grasp away to replace his palms with a basin, and he couldn't keep the oxygen mask in place for fear of choking his patient with his own liquid insides.

Travis stares at his partner's hands, resting in his lap, cupped together, holding the mucus and such.

And then he lifts his head to look at the paramedics and asks, "Is that blood?"

.

They're in the ambulance when he hears it; listens to them name the thing that's apparently been sapping the life from him for the past month or so.

He hears the driver relay his message to whoever is taking the call, hears him mention the words "head injury" and "receiving oxygen", and then the dispatcher or hospital attendant or whoever the Hell is so damn interested in what's going on with Wes asks for confirmation of the patient suffering from a suspected infectious disease.

His ears somehow prick up at that; and though the rasp of his own breathing still manages to remain louder than anything else in his immediate vicinity, he heeds the response loud and clear.

How could he not? When the driver verifies his colleague's query with the words, "Pt has suspected TB, active infection."

Wes doesn't need to have attended medical school to know what that means.

Apparently they think he's contracted _tuberculosis._

Hence all the darting looks to one another that he imagines they thought were discreet, although how they could think that when they then rushed to follow protocol by donning their protective gear, Wes isn't sure. And while he can appreciate those who follow the rules that are set out with them in mind and governed in a manner that is supposed to protect them, he thinks they'd do better to keep a tighter lid on such _revelations_, because as soon as he saw Travis's face he knew he was a goner.

One look at the worried glaze that had settled over his partner' eyes had been enough to startle Wes into the conclusion that he was well and truly fucked now.

He tries to look at his partner as he sits alongside him before settling for knocking his hand against his knee. He receives a flash of a smile for his efforts (yes, he can tell Travis is doing that even with a surgical mask obstructing his view) and then a shrug as if to say, '_what can you do, eh Wes?_'

This only serves to confirm Wes's earlier suspicion: somehow, this is all Travis's fault.

.

He stumbles out alongside the medics when they reach the hospital and there's a score of personnel all waiting to greet them in the ambulance bay, each one kitted out in similar attire to their own. They've no sooner wheeled Wes inside and along to a room that looks isolated from the rest, than they're calling out orders and passing instruments and exchanging charts with one another from one side of the gurney to the other. Wes seems to have chosen a spot on the ceiling to stare at while they work around him, getting further and further away until – Travis soon realizes the room seems that way because that's exactly what it is.

Isolation.

Of course, because Wes has a suspected infectious disease.

Possibly _Tuberculosis_.

It's never anything easy or straightforward with Wes.

They put him in the room adjacent, mask still in place as they begin attempting to run some initial tests. Apparently these are standard, routine, will be over before he knows it. That may well be, but Travis is a little busy right now trying to stay on his feet and get as close to the viewing window as he can so he can keep an eye on Wes, so if they could just do this another time that'd be great.

One of the nurses tries to take him by the arm, endeavors to lead him over to the bed where she can stick him with some sort of needle and maybe take a swab or two before they send him to X-Ray. If it's all the same with them, he'd really rather just find out what's going on with his partner, and he tells them this. They assure him they're taking care of Wes, that he's receiving the best medical treatment available, that he's being seen to by doctors and nurses who are in the top of their field. That doesn't really do much for his confidence; he's watched his partner's evolution over the past half hour and he can't say it's improved a Hell of a lot with the medical intervention. Besides, what doctor or nurse is ever going to say they're not the best, most competent, most trustworthy person to be holding such an important life in their hands?

He inches forward, resisting the urge to slap the hands away that reach for him (that's such a _Wes _thing to do) and tries to make out his partner's face amid the hustle and bustle going on around him. Travis can see his lips moving; can make out the lines around his face crinkling with the movement, the slight beads of sweat on his temple and the strain of exertion on his forehead. Whatever Wes is trying to tell him is obviously important.

He squints, cranes his neck round and stares and stares until he is sure he has a clear enough view of his partner to concentrate fully on what he's trying to communicate with him. One of the nurses takes his momentary copycat act as a statue to stick him in the crook of his elbow and he releases a low, "_Ow!_" and sends her a quick scowl to show her he doesn't appreciate being tricked like that. If she'd just _asked_ – she raises an eyebrow at that and he has enough grace (and game) to look a little sheepish. Oh, right. She tried that tactic.

She circles the spot with a pen and then pats his wrist as if to reassure him the painful part is over with (doubtful – has she seen the wires and machines and _blood_ surrounding his partner?) Then she tells him, "We'll have the results from that within 48 hours and we'll do a chest X-Ray on you shortly to check your lungs."

"You think he infected me?" he asks, eyes back on Wes as he tries to decipher the lip movements – if the people in the next room would just stand still for a moment.

"It's possible," the nurse responds, "You two are partners, right?"

"Five years," he says and shakes his head at the almost-wistful tone he seems to have adopted with the reply. Wes isn't dead yet, they're still partners, still the best two detectives in the whole damn department. So because he knows his _police_ _partner_ wouldn't want there to be any sort of mix up here a la therapy, and it's really not as much fun to annoy Wes when he's a. actually, possibly, dying in the room next to him and b. not there to fully appreciate his efforts, Travis explains, "We've been partners in Robbery/Homicide for five years, known each other for seven."

"If it is TB it's treatable," she tells him after a moment, and if she's aiming for reassuring, Travis thinks she actually might've nailed it.

He turns to regard her for a moment. "Oh yeah?"

She's young, pretty, has that wholesome girl-next-door look about her. He's almost feels bad for chewing her out over her actions a few minutes ago until he remembers that she _tricked _him, so he figures his reaction was justified.

The nurse nods, tells him honestly, "It's manageable. We'll obviously know more when the tests results come back, but they'll most likely have your partner started on a course of antibiotics now to get the ball rolling."

He likes the sound of that: sooner rather than later; the sooner the better.

"They've set up an IV to combat his dehydration and they've kept him on the oxygen to help with his breathing," she continues and gives him a small smile as he acknowledges all they're doing for the blonde, medically speaking.

She nods to her colleagues in the next room, who are still constantly moving, constantly talking, constantly doing; and he choose to believe it's all to help Wes, that it_ is_ helping Wes.

"We'll take care of your partner, Detective Marks," the nurse tells him and it sounds so much like a promise he decides he's going to hold her to it even if she hasn't technically guaranteed Wes will be ok.

He's been partnered with a former lawyer for five years, who was married to a woman who is still a lawyer; Travis has no doubt it'll pass as a verbal agreement.

They'll take care of his partner.

They have to.

Shit.

Travis curses inside his head and out.

Alex.

His eyes snap back over to Wes. He spies his partner's arm bent at the elbow, resting awkwardly on the padding beneath, with his pointer finger marking out letters in tired, lazy movements in the only space around his bed not filled with a medical professional or lifesaving equipment.

Alex.

Wes writes her name in the sterile air of his isolation ward and when Travis finally sees it, he smiles around the mask that supposed to prevent contamination. He nods his understanding of the message his partner's been trying to relay to him and assures him, "I'll call her, buddy. I'll call Alex."

He's not sure if Wes can see or hear him, but he watches the blonde drop his hand to the side of the gurney, the tight lines of his face drawing out once more as his chest judders up and down with each shaky breath. He tells himself Wes managed to do both, because it's a far more preferable option than the idea that his partner simply tired himself out with the movement. If Wes can't sustain simply hand gestures while he's lying in a hospital bed being treated with God-knows-what by _the best in their field_ then he has major problems. And Travis has about had his fill of this scenario already without adding a few more serious implications to the mix.

They wheel Wes out of the room, colored gowns and breathing masks and latex-covered fingers curled around the bars of his bed and Travis watches them go; not at all impressed with the fact no one thought to notify him where they were taking his partner.

How's he supposed to have his partner's back if he doesn't know where he's going?

"They're probably taking him for a CT scan," the nurse pipes up from her place next to him, "That way they can check his lungs for any signs of the infection, and see if he suffered any damage to his head in the fall."

Shit.

Travis forgot about the fall.

Wes would say that's a sure-fire sign he's the one who needs his head checked, not the other way round.

He doesn't think a little forgetfulness when so much else has been going on really compares to possible brain injury from striking the solid concrete of the sidewalk with your _skull_.

Knowing Wes, he'd still argue the point and then Travis would argue right back.

_Damn._

Travis misses the annoying, stubborn, argumentative little fucker already.

How did that happen?

.

They tell him he has to stay very still for the head exam and then they'll have him take a deep breath while they take a look at his chest. The voice from the great beyond speaks up to repeat the previous instructions again when he fails to comply. Given the method of delivery, like an echo that reverberates off the walls and whooshes through the inside of the giant cylindrical ring that is intent on passing over him, he finds himself wondering how many people have the deluded fantasy that this is it: the end. The great, booming voice to welcome them into the light.

When the machine starts, Wes thinks this is more like being the bullet as it's loaded into the chamber. He makes it through the first stage (after a few _trial runs_ as he likes to term them), and the whirring of the scanner even manages to drown out his own wheezing. Enough that if he wasn't fully aware of the tremors coursing through him, he might not realize he's having another coughing fit in the middle of the table. The attendants pile back into the room to deal with this little mishap on his part and then file back out again to try the procedure again. He makes it through it, eventually.

They finally wheel him back to his room and he asks for what feels like a badgering hundredth time when he can see his partner, because this is getting out-of-hand now.

"Beat you to it," a voice calls out at that, and then there's Travis leaning against the opposite wall. "I've been standing here waiting on you for ages," he says, pushing off the walls and striding over towards Wes's hospital bed. "I thought you were supposed to be the keen, early one of the two of us. What happened, man? You're losing your touch."

He feels his cheeks pinch, and his eyes crinkle and the sharp intake of oxygen hits his teeth as his lips spark upwards.

It's possible that he's rather _pleased_ to see his partner.

He moves to pull his oxygen mask off, but Travis stops him. "Woah, hold up there, partner!" he exclaims, holding up his hands, and advancing towards him, "How about you keep that on for the moment?"

Wes frowns as Travis checks the mask is still fully in place. "What's wrong?"

"Well if you take yours off, I have to put mine on," Travis reasons, and then flashes a smile and a wink over to the opposite corner, nodding at the nurse Wes is sure is supposed to be working but who instead seems quite content to return Travis's advance. Really. The gall of some people. "And we both know, I am _wasted _with half of this number hiding behind one of those," his partner finishes, circling his face with his finger before pointing at the contraption currently stuck on Wes's, eyeing the surgical mask with distaste.

"So because you want to flirt with the nurses, I'm not allowed to take off my mask?" Wes returns, suddenly wondering why he was so happy to see his partner. Then he remembers: skull fracture, concussion. He's bound to be a little messed up after that.

"You're the one who's sick, not me," Travis replies, and pulls up a seat next to his bed.

"Your results aren't even back yet," he counters, reaching out and grabbing his partner's arm, pointing at the black marker circling a patch of his skin, "See this? It means you're still in limbo."

"Damn right I'm in limbo," is the flippant response to that as Travis tugs his arm out of Wes's grasp with relative ease, "Have you _seen _the talent in this place? Doctors, nurses, orderlies. Problem is, which to go for first?" He runs his thumb and forefinger along his jaw, appearing like he's genuinely mulling this decision over, before concluding fairly rapidly, "Man, I don't know why I'm worrying, you're scheduled to be here for a while, so that leaves me with plenty of time to get to know the staff looking after _my dear partner, Wes_."

"Travis, you are not to hit on my medical care staff," he warns.

Unsurprisingly, Travis just waves him off. "Relax, Wes, there's plenty to go around."

"I'm going to have them ban you from my room," Wes responds, "Tell the nurses and doctors to take out restraining orders against you so I can be free of you and finally get some peace for once in my life."

Travis just laughs at this, fobbing off his attempts to be rid of him (Wes isn't sure why he even bothers anymore). "Partner, you'd be lost without me. And you'll be bored as Hell without me around here to keep you company."

"We'll see," he comments with a fleeting smile.

The coughing happens so often now, he's not sure why he's surprised. Except he's not quick enough to remove his mask and catch the spray with his hands or a tissue instead and he ends up covering the inside of the plastic.

Travis stares at him for the longest moment, before calling out, "_Nurse!_"

When Wes lifts his hands away from his face, his fingers coated in red.

He looks back to his partner who looks about as horrified as he did when the paramedics first swarmed him in their version of Hazmat suits.

He wants to tell Travis not to worry, that he'll be fine, to reassure him; but as soon as he opens his mouth his words get covered in blood like his intentions.

Ok, so maybe this isn't good.

.

"Oh God," he hears a voice breathe out followed closely by the distressed realization of, "_Wes._"

Alex.

He turns and whatever questions she has for him die on her lips when she looks from Wes to Travis and then back again. Travis takes her in his arms and figures the questions can wait for the time-being. He's not sure he'd have the answers anyway.

.

Wes opens his eyes to brightness all around and the feeling of his hands sunken firmly into the mattress. He frowns, parts his lips and looks down to find there to be two causes.

Alex and Travis are both fast asleep on his bed, one on either side of him. Travis has his arms spread out in line with Wes's body, his head resting on the juncture between his clasped hands with Wes's held firmly beneath. Wes is surprised his whole upper limb hasn't gone numb with the weight of another on top of it, not to mention the addition of his partner's thick head. Alex, meanwhile is nestled nearer his shoulder, her palm cradling her cheek and her fingers threaded through his.

And without even meaning to his lips quirk up into a smile that soon morphs into a light chuckle, bubbling over into laughter, which inevitably develops into a coughing fit that awakens the two visitors.

Well, he supposes, that's one way of getting their attention and letting them know he's awake and in the land of consciousness once more.

.

Alex leaves shortly after the doctor checks in on him, running her hand over his cheek and giving him a small smile before she goes. She'll be back to see him after work, as she always is, so for now (and the remaining however many hours there are until her return – sometimes he counts it right down to the second) he's stuck with Travis.

He still has the occasional (_ok_, more often than not) need for the oxygen so he's still the one to wear the mask continually, while they get free reign of sight and movement to the lower quadrants of their faces.

"You know you really only have yourself to blame for all this," Travis notifies him, tossing the ball high in the air as he leans back in his chair watching its descent before deftly catching it in his hand and then repeating the process. "I told you to go see a doctor."

"And I told you I'd booked an appointment for the following week," is his terse response.

"Yeah, the following week," Travis replies, throwing him a look that tells him exactly what he thinks of that plan, "That's great, Wes, really. Except now you're in an _isolation unit_."

"That's right, Travis, remind me of the fact I'm only allowed minimum contact with the world outside these walls and am basically stuck in here for the foreseeable future. Thank you, really," he returns testily, "Such a morale booster you are."

It's times like these he starts to look at the clock and begins his calculations. It depends on Travis's mood how far he gets into the countdown.

Dr. Ryan mentioned that this might actually be good for them. Wes fails to see how. This is like that time they were on a stake-out together and Travis nearly drove him spare with his littering and abject laziness, only this time _he can't leave._

"Only _you_ could contract a disease that hasn't been around since the Civil War," Travis comments scathingly.

"Ok, well that's inaccurate," he informs him. "There was an outbreak in Florida not long ago."

"Really?" The ball stops as he poses the question.

"Yes, really, why would I make that up?" Wes replies, looking at his partner in slight disbelief.

Travis shrugs. "It just seems like something you would do to prove a point."

"No, it seems like something _you _would do," he corrects that gross character injustice, "And it's been all over the news," he updates his partner and then he squints at him, "Don't you read?" He tilts his head. "_Can _you read?"

Travis tuts and rolls his eyes, looking close to flipping him off.

Wes grins behind his mask.

"Shut up, you know I can," Travis answers dismissively, "Anyway, that's all the way on the other coast, it doesn't even apply here."

"Doesn't even…" Wes trails off shaking his head.

"Unless…" his partner picks up, turning back to him sharply, hands pausing mid-motion, ball poised atop fingertips, "You've not gone and created an epidemic on _this _coast, have you? That would be just like you. Mastermind some ridiculous crusade to point out the flaws in the system and school the Health Board and Infectious Disease Unit on their weak points and how to prevent further spread of this _plague _you've cursed upon all their households."

Wes just fits him with a look, unimpressed with Travis's attempt at a late jab after his earlier remark about his literacy skills. "I failed to infect _you_, Travis. I highly doubt I managed to cause a city-wide outbreak."

"I dunno man, we do provide a public service, who's to say you didn't cough all over some suspect for making you chase after him for so long in the summer heat while wearing one of those tight suits of yours?" His partner shoots him a look, "I've worn them, remember? Spent _days_ getting inside your head and everything." He tosses the ball back in the air, sparing Wes a glance as he reasons, "I wouldn't blame you if you felt the need to let loose every once in a while. God knows you need it."

"By turning into some crazed vigilante who goes around spreading germs because some little punk thinks they can outrun me due to the fact I happen to be wearing an expensive and well-tailored suit?" Wes queries his partner's supposed vision of him during his downtime. "Well they're sorely mistaken – as are you."

Travis shrugs; looks like he's still contemplating the idea. "How did you even get it anyway? Is it like Typhoid? Did you eat some seriously funky food? Have you been hanging out with a chick named Mary recently?"

Wes shoots him a look. Not funny.

Travis grins, seems to take great pride and pleasure in explaining, "I _googled_ 'old ass diseases that sound like they belong in _Oliver Twist _and only cranky old men like Wes would get in the Twenty-First Century_'_."

"Very funny and no I did not, no I have not, and… I don't know," then something clicks after what feels like an age of speculation and Wes scowls, "I bet it was that snotty-nosed kid from a few weeks ago."

"What snotty-nosed kid?" Travis enquires, though Wes can tell by the way the ball has returned to a steady pace of up-and-down and back again that he's not really paying attention.

"Don't play dumb, you know what snotty-nosed kid," Wes answers, knowing it shouldn't be difficult to jog his partner's memory and grab his attention once more, "The one who made me chase him three blocks and then coughed all over _me_ while you were taking your sweet time catching up with us."

"Oh, him." Apparently Travis does remember who he's referring to after all. "Really?"

"Yes, really," is his tight reply. "It's the only plausible explanation. And it fits with the timeline of when my symptoms started to manifest."

Another name to add to the list of people for testing.

"Right, right," Travis says, and then turns and points the ball at Wes as he counters, "It couldn't just be that you're miserable most of the time when you have no real reason to be so karma's finally catching up with you?"

He glares at the other, picking up where he left off just previously, "If I recall, _I _was the one who ended up having to read him his rights and slap the cuffs on him because you refused to go anywhere near him after you spotted his phlegm on my shirt."

"Urgh, don't remind me," his partner grimaces, fully shuddering at the memory.

"Don't remind _you_?" Wes returns, and if his sharp intake of oxygen is an indication that he's raised his voice and maybe, possibly, should try to bring it down a notch then so be it. He has a point to make here. "What about _me_? I had to throw that shirt out!"

"I guess it's a good thing you did too," Travis remarks, "otherwise you'd have been walking round spreading tuberculosis everywhere."

"I wasn't – " he starts to refute and then thinks better of it, taking a breath and reminding his partner instead, "You know, if you were the one infected we'd be looking at having to shut down the entire office. I am clean, I keep my germs to myself, I throw-away tissues after one use, I meticulously use hand sanitizer, I _wash_. These are things that prevent the spread of infection."

"And we are all grateful for that," Travis awards him, complete with a smile. Only it looks far too fake and a little too self-serving for Wes's liking.

"I have half a mind to go and find that kid and cough all over him this time. See how he likes it," Wes voices his momentary vindictive thought.

Travis has thoughts of a crazed vigilante roaming the streets of LA in a cross between a biohazard suit and a straight-up blazer and pants effort, with hand sanitizer as his weapon of defence, praying on snivelling, coughing kids all over town. He thinks now is maybe not the best time to share these visions with his partner.

"I hope you know this is all your fault," Wes takes his turn to point out now.

"Of course it is," Travis dutifully replies, barely paying him any mind.

"If you'd just done what you were supposed to and taken the kid off my hands and allowed me to wipe away the infected micro-organisms from my clothes and sanitize my hands so as to get rid of any trace of them; as is the _appropriate_ response to such a gross attack of an infectious disease," he takes a deep breath, concluding, "We wouldn't be here."

In response to that, Travis just throws the ball higher so it smacks off the roof before falling back into his waiting hand.

Wes swallows the low growl of frustration at this and continues on, "In fact, since we both know you never follow protocol, you'd have simply been all cavalier about the chances of any form of biological warfare on your insides and then you'd be the one sitting here and we'd both be miserable and I'd at least have something to look forward to when I got to watch you try and swallow all these pills they insist upon while Nurse Ratched hovered over you making sure you stuck with the program."

"I bet," Travis finally acknowledges with a brief look his way and the words, "Except that would never have happened because your immune system sucks and mine doesn't."

"I thought visitors weren't supposed to aggravate the patients, and that's exactly what you're doing, you're aggravating me," Wes tells him, irritated, "You keep this up, you'll make it worse."

"And you'll be stuck in the hospital even longer?" Travis turns fully to face him now, his face a picture of overwrought concern, his hands flying to frame his mouth, "No! Really? Gosh, Wes, that'd be just_ terrible_."

"I hate you."

"I know," is Travis's easy response, complete with shit-eating grin, "So I guess it's a good thing I never helped you out when you were cuffing that kid, else we'd both be sitting here, miserable, quarantined."

"Yes," Wes returns dryly, shooting him a glare, "What a tragic turn of events that would've been."

"Right, except, you know," Travis says, pointing to himself and flaunting his grin, "Immune!"

Wes throws a plastic fork at him and hopes he breaks the skin so any little airborne particles that haven't been cleansed or removed yet can make their way into his open wound and prove Travis's completely smug theory wrong.

He's not holding out much hope though so he settles on glaring at the grinning, laughing maniac someone thought a good idea to let into his room and leave locked up with him all day every day for as long as he can remember.

.

Wes manages to get them off therapy for a week by claiming to be too ill to leave the hospital, which is true, but for the following one he's provided with a video link. That only means he's treated to the concerned looks of each member of the group before Travis leaps onto the bed next to him and nearly causes him to topple the laptop sideways. That results in a scowl and a few disapproving _tuts _that make their way through the speakers, but all Travis hears is the ripple of laughter. Group still loves him the best.

There's even a round of _awws_ when they ask why he's the one wearing the mask if Wes is sick and he explains that Wes doesn't need to rely on the oxygen so much anymore and he knows how much his partner hated the mask so he thought they could swap. Now every day Travis comes by with a customized surgical mask so Wes can leave his own face unobstructed. He figures it's the least he can do for his partner after being subjected to wearing one for so long. Plus he gets a kick out of the looks Wes sends him every time he catches sight of the day's creative attempt to brighten up the _nuisance of a contraption_ (and yet it's still _life-saving _and totally _necessary_, as Travis likes to remind the blonde - and yes he is usually beaming when he says it).

Today's invention is a massive pair of lips displaying giant straight, white teeth – not quite his own (real) hundred-watt effort, but amusing enough to garner a laugh or two out of those he passes while wearing it.

Yesterday's was dominated by an intricate handlebar moustache. One of his better ideas.

He's thinking tomorrow he might draw a zip across a pair of lips. Wes might actually appreciate that one.

"Hey, budge up, will you?" he says, though it's hardly a request when he's already planted himself on the bed next to Wes and wriggled his way into a sizeable portion of the mattress.

Wes scowls at him and rights the computer on the tray table in front of him.

"How are you feeling, Wes?" Dr. Ryan asks with a sympathetic smile.

"Like I have a disease that was rife during the Civil War and has decided its due a comeback," is his droll reply. "How are you?"

And they're off to a brilliant start.

.

Finally his tests have run negative in a consecutive stream and the doctors tell him he's no longer considered infectious so he's free to return home. He's still on the meds (will be for months to come), but at least he can finally leave the box he's been stuck in for the past two and a half weeks, with a certain someone that he is suitably grateful not to be taking up further residence with in the future. Although since he'll be at Alex's and Travis never seems to miss an opportunity to work his way into that situation, he doubts he'll be rid of him that easily. He'll probably expect Wes to cook him dinner every night as a thank you, as if the blonde has nothing better to do all day than whip up a full-course meal for his partner.

"Hey, Trav?" Wes calls out to him, his voice still a hoarse whisper really even without the oxygen mask dampening the sound. "Thanks for, you know not letting me bleed out on the ground."

"No problem," is Travis's flyaway response, complete with wide, easy smile.

"And for… for coming to see me in here," Wes continues, nodding in acknowledgement and telling his partner honestly, "I really appreciate it."

There's a resounding _aww_ from the therapy group who are still on the video call (he could've sworn he told Travis to end that minutes ago) and Alex is leaning against the doorframe with a smile on her face watching the pair of them.

"You know I'm resisting the urge to shove you off this bed, right now, don't you?"

"I know," Travis assures him, "And we're all very proud of your levels of self-restraint." His partner dips his head in acknowledgement of this achievement, "Bravo."

"That's it?" Wes asks, raising an eyebrow in skepticism. "Not going to challenge me to see if I'm up to the task."

Travis rolls his shoulders. "I figured that'd ruin the surprise you're no doubt planning for later."

Wes doesn't say anything, just sits smiling.

He's still smiling when Alex pushes him out through the hospital doors and he finally breathes his first breath of fresh (well it's LA, so it's all relative), outside air in over two weeks.

He's not smiling so much when Travis jumps out of the driver's side door of his car, arms thrown out like he's actually expecting something more than a horror-stricken expression and the words, "You are not driving me home."

"Relax, partner," Travis assures him with a grin, helping him into the passenger side. "Alex is driving."

His partner tosses the keys to her over the roof of his pristine vehicle and Wes is so _so _grateful that Alex is a great catch.

"I'll be in the back."

Wes groans and Travis laughs.

They start bickering almost immediately. Wes takes Travis's constant presence to be an admission of guilt; Travis thinks Wes got himself into this whole mess because he has a shitty immune system.

Alex turns on the radio to drown them both out, but she's smiling to herself as she pulls away from the curb.

Home it is.

.

"_The 'i' in illness is isolation, and the crucial letters in wellness are 'we'."  
__**Unknown, Quoted in Mimi Guarneri, 'The Heart Speaks: A Cardiologist Reveals the Secret Language of Healing'**_

.

_**The End.**_

* * *

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it – any comments/criticism is welcome and I'll respond as soon as I'm reconnected :)  
Also, I apologise for any gross mistakes with how I handled this illness/treatment – I do not pretend to be a practicing medical professional (that journey ended long ago), just a gal with a penchant for writing who crosses her fingers that her research and execution is accurate enough to be realistic.

Thanks again!  
Steph  
xxx


End file.
